Mating with Silence

 

Mating with Silence

 

 

essential paintings hang upon bland walls

their frames can no longer see

the misaligned nail hole that appalls;

the chess player’s lost mind recalls

names of the pieces standing out at sea

 

has the queen’s pawn jumped free

 

numbered chairs sit apart round the tables

their place assigned to a name

the disquieting silence finds many fables

within the stilled house of the four gables;

and those who live there - are not the same

 

has the king’s knight slipped free

 

temporary rooms in a house of four wings

with quarters positioned for a longing stay

of those who wait dementia’s insulting stings;

an organ sits in memory of old flings

as music sheets no longer turn to play

 

 

for the game’s mate has fallen silent and free

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Stopping for a Wake

 

 

 

 

 

Walking round the outer edges

of the room so to avoid the empty

metal chairs that fit neatly in rows of ten

waiting to sit as if death’s witnesses;

clusters of family share quietly

like strangers whispering secrets

for time has changed everyone to older

forms of the stilled images pictured

in the photographs of a chronicle

that covers a hundred years of connections.

 

From the nostalgic old fashion clothes and hair styles

through today and the time that is left -

now the mind winces; the heart trembles; the eye tears

and the spirit tilts slightly; bowing

to the uncertain probabilities

as the presence of death’s vestige lies in open view

and each one who passes by, in final respect,

senses the nearness of the frozen moment

when we will come to an end

and someone gathers the picture’s stopping for a wake.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Doggie That Knows Prose

 

 

 

 

 

On the corner by the bush

I can sniff Toby’s tush

he was here - not so long ago

lifting his leg high then low

upon the birch bark

along the doggie trail park.

 

And then, there in the yellow snow

Fifi left her smell for me to know

the swell past is here in the now

so I may write poetry

with tortured bow wow

woofing for more rhymes

and the good times

behind our old tree.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Children's Colors

 

 

Children’s Colors

the mint green julep has soured

the whimsical pastels have become dark and ruddy

the cold night air evolves back unto itself

 and with each passing day gathers in the hours

in the autumn one must lay down with the fallen leaves bloody

for mother always reclaims her children’s colors

Sounds Wrong

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Alarming sounds strike awake the iniquitous eyes

the room placements are shadowy; sitting vaguely in darkness

its gaze has a vile blankness

for today is the day - everyone dies.

 

Inviting sounds call young minds to tend

school rooms are bright and open; teaching is the mill

the student body hums with learning; no one sees any ill

heavy steel doors lock with shiny metal hardware; for evil they fend.

 

The demon walks around with hands hidden; twitching

and enters the school easily;  disguised with wears of goodness

concealing vile intentions;  inquiring  “who believes blessedness”

the devil’s tongue spews out fire until life empties without itching.

 

Insanity turns around and around as the cries become a final plea

another massacre; another school; another town

media and headlines scream out  “Students Gunned Down”

and survivors wring hands;  curse the deeds;  as the children fall into a spree.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(Umpqua Community College 10/05/15)